


and what will you become tomorrow?

by daydise



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, thank you Furudate Sensei, this is my love letter to haikyuu and tsukishima kei
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25420855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydise/pseuds/daydise
Summary: There are Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium smiles and dynamic playgrounds. There are slides and silent serves and turnips and appendices that demand to be removed and there is honest-to-god flying.There are endings and beginnings.Or: Tsukishima Kei gets some character development from unlikely sources.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou & Tsukishima Kei, Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei, Terushima Yuuji & Tsukishima Kei, Tsukishima Kei & Kindaichi Yuutarou, Tsukishima Kei & Suna Rintarou
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92





	and what will you become tomorrow?

Kei hears Kuroo before he sees him. 

His footing falters as he lands, but hearing a ghost of your past after three long years will do that to you. He’s lucky he hadn’t landed on it badly, but there’s no time to dwell on it. Their libero has bumped the ball, and it’s a perfect arc to their setter, and Kyoutani is approaching from the left and Arai from the right. Kindaichi’s staring him down at the centre in his grey Tamaden Elephants jersey, a poor imitation of the teal of Seijoh.

Tamura tosses it high for him, and Kei makes the motions of his jump. It sets Kindaichi off, and he’s already falling from his block by the time Kei reaches his peak. A smirk pulls at his lips as the ball grazes over Kindaichi’s fingers and lands with a thud on the opposing court. 

A whistle sounds.

Adjusting the tape on his fingers, he regards Kindaichi down the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t work all too well, since they’re about the same height, but he takes offense to it and that’s all that really matters anyway.

“Will you ever not fall for that, Turnip-head?” 

There’s a vicious snarl, but the glint in Kindaichi’s eyes is what Kei really fears— _anticipates_. After all, it’s simply the promise of a challenge.

“One more time and I’ll get it, Four-eyes.”

“It’s been, what? Six years? How much more time do you need?” It’s an admission—not if, but when. Kei has faith in Kindaichi’s abilities, has seen him grow from the insecure boy who could not spike the King’s tosses no matter how hard he tried, to the man that had captained the team that had beaten them in their final Interhighs, to the one that stands before him today. 

Kindaichi hides his smile with a smirk. 

“Whatever. Just shake my hand, you punk.”

An aborted laugh escapes Kei’s lips, and he meets Kindaichi’s outstretched hand halfway. They’ve come a long way since that Miyagi rookie camp.

Somewhere between that final one-man time difference and shaking Onaga’s hand, Kei forgets about the voice that had drifted across the court. It really wasn’t that hard to, since Kei hadn’t even been sure that it was Kuroo’s in the first place, but now he’s convinced that the self-satisfied drawl that comes from behind belongs to said man.

“Well, well, well, Tsukki. Enjoying volleyball, I see?”

The thing is, they had lost contact after high school, like most friendships that preach ‘We’ll be together forever!’. They had texted frequently during Kei’s first year, progressing to calls toward the tail-end of it, but as quickly as that had built up, it had petered out to a couple texts a week and finally, to nothing at all by Kei’s third year. He doesn’t hold it against either of them. They had both been busy, and yes, it was probably a shame, but that’s a fact of life.

The last time Kei had seen Kuroo was at their final Spring High. It was the semi-finals against Itachiyama, and the fact that Sakusa and Komori graduated the year before had not put any sort of dent in the current team they were facing. Kuroo had been calling out his name from the stands, with Bokuto echoing it like the stupid owl he is. Sugawara, Ennoshita and Nishinoya had made it as well and were doing their typical cheer squad things, perhaps less impressive without Kinoshita and Narita. But, maybe there were other people there, however unlikely, like Miya Atsumu and Kageyama’s mysterious sister they had only seen once prior, though Kei didn’t know because he had refused to look up at the stands until they had their ticket to the finals.

Suffice to say, they did not get their ticket to the finals.

The last time Kei had seen Kuroo before that was the year before, in the exact same position, but this time it was the third round against Inarizaki. The Miya twins had scored the winning point with their own freak attack, one which they had kept under wraps for the entire game and had improved on off-screen. Sweet retribution, or something like that. Kei thought it poetic. 

Anyway, while he was falling from that final block, an irrational fear that when Kei looked up at the stands, Kuroo would be frowning and Kenma would call Hinata uninteresting (not that he cares about that Shrimp) and Akiteru would be shaking his head, clawed its way into his mouth and down his oesophagus and settled into a sludge at the bottom of his stomach. At that point, he hadn’t been that insecure kid since Spring the year before, but sometimes it still manifests despite how much he believes in himself.

However, when Kei landed on his feet and looked tentatively up at the stands, Kuroo had managed to surprise him, like he always does. Instead of a frown, there was a smile, one that dazed him as much as the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium ceiling. 

The sludge at the bottom of his stomach had evaporated into nothing, and Kei allowed himself to be bowled over by Nishinoya once again.

But back to their last high school volleyball match. Kei had felt the same dread pool in his stomach as the year before, but tenfold since this was their final chance at that one 15 year-old, shiny-eyed goal that pretty much all of them had yelled at their volleyball club induction with a crack in their voice. And Kei knew that everyone that stood in their cheer section, volleyball player or not, had placed their well-worn hopes onto their shoulders and would have lived out their volleyball driven fantasies vicariously, should Karasuno win.

And they hadn’t won.

Kei thought about this all while he was falling from that final synchronised attack, with Hinata’s blocked spike too far to reach and no one to follow up. After all these years, they had never given up on their concept, and whether that was to their detriment or success, it was now up to the next generation to decide. Fucking poetic, really.

So when he landed on the orange court, there was a crude smile on his face. He could feel his 15 year-old self thrashing about in his locked cage located in his appendix, and he could feel that bitter boy threaten appendicitis with a shake of his fist. 

He hadn’t looked up to the stands, instead opting to sit down on the court, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. He eyed Hinata, who was still staring at the ball that had rudely landed on their side of the court. He had expected to find tears in the Shrimp’s eyes, since he arguably cared the most—arguably being the key word here—but instead, there was a glint in his eye and that imperceptible tilt of his head that still gives Kei the heebie jeebies. 

15 year-old Kei screamed ‘Volleyball Idiot!’ in a tiny, squeaky voice. 18 year-old Kei knew better. Hinata was just recalibrating, working out what the next step in his volleyball-studded path was.

His eyes shifted to Kageyama, who stared wistfully at the ceiling, completely detached from their crying kouhai and cheering opponents. Bathed in the floodlights and with sweat dripping from his hair, Kei thought he truly was the King of the Court, despite their unfortunate loss that day. After all, Kageyama was the one that would be back in this very gym in a week, training for the Olympics. 

A shift of movement caught his attention. Yamaguchi stood tall and proud: hugging, ruffling hair, wiping tears—the lot. At the sight, 15 year-old Kei had quietened a bit. If Yamaguchi, best friend and captain of this god forsaken team, could stand tall and proud, then so could he; something he had learned the hard way three years ago.

Finally, he looked up at the stands. That dread was still there, but with the knowledge that his friends were looking to the future, it had slowly eased. Much like the year before, Kuroo had that stupid smile on his face, like nothing Kei could do would ever disappoint him, and Bokuto was hanging off his shoulders, waving manically. Nishinoya looked like he was about to jump off the balcony, but Sugawara, Daichi and Ennoshita held him back. Kenma had clapped with a small, pleased smile, and Miya Atsumu was doing Miya Atsumu things. Akiteru was crying, and so was Saeko, and so was Kageyama’s mysterious sister that they had only seen once prior, and Kei thought he could make out Hinata Natsu also crying, but into her mother’s shoulder. 

Much like the year before, Kuroo had that stupid smile on his face, and it had evaporated the rest of the stupid dread at the pit of his stomach and curb stomped stupid 15 year-old Kei into submission.

Much like the year before, Kei unfurled his arms from his knees and laid sprawled out on that stupid orange court, stared at stupidly bright lights and allowed his stupid friends to pile ontop of him—and maybe the rest of his stupid team, too.

Anyway, Kuroo and Kei had lost contact ever since the bone-crushing hug and an ‘I’m so proud of you’ whispered hotly in his ear outside the gymnasium, and Kei is not bitter about it, okay? Things happen— _life_ happens. And it so happens that Kuroo Tetsurou is standing behind him three years later, like he’s waiting for him to cast his eyes up to the stands where Kei would know he’d be.

Onaga slaps him on the back and skitters away, wishing him luck on the rest of the tournament. Kei’s breath is a little shallow, but he manages to stutter out, “You too, Onaga,” after him.

Kei doesn’t turn around just yet. 

Kyoutani narrows his eyes at him from the bench, his gaze flickering between something behind him, no doubt Kuroo, and himself. He would imagine that he looks strange right about now—standing stock-still, a figure probably standing a couple metres away, probably still with that same bedhead and slimy smirk, and eyes probably trained on the back of his head. If he had seen this scene occur to anyone else, he would also be concerned.

As it so happens, he is concerned. 

There’s a beat or two after Kuroo’s proclamation and Onaga’s timely departure, and Kei’s breath is still shallow and suddenly his tongue doesn’t fit in his mouth anymore. It is too big, and Kei imagines that if he were to somehow speak, the muscle would just curve around the vowels all wrong, and he’d be a laughing stock.

 _Stop being dramatic_ , inner Yamaguchi says. _Okay_ , inner Kei replies. His tongue shrinks in size. Sometimes, it really is that simple.

“Still a delinquent, I see? Slinking around at your kouhai’s games like a—”

And here’s where it went wrong. At this moment, Kei turns around and he’s adjusting his glasses, just to be a brat. When he opens his eyes and processes that Kuroo is wearing a suit and yeah, looks exactly as he had pictured him, his bodily functions seem to cease. Distantly, Kei thinks about the hand that’s adjusting his glasses and idly notes: this is a long stretch of time for your hand to be pushing up your glasses, and a long fucking pause between your sentence. 

In the grand scheme of things, it is only two seconds. 

“—slimy creep?”

There is a fatal error in his sentence, one that he knows Kuroo will exploit. Kuroo fucking Tetsurou is wearing a suit, ergo he cannot be a fucking deliquent.

Said slimy smirk slowly becomes completely feral, but before that: soft eyes, a small smile and a tiny huff of air out through his nose.

“You’ll be glad to know that I,” Kuroo declares smugly, placing a purposeful hand on his chest, “am part of the Japan Volleyball Association.” The man has the audacity to cock his head. “Sports promotion division.”

And this is the guy that calls him a brat. Kei kind of wants to punch him.

“That’s unfortunate,” he retorts, souring his face while unwrapping the tape around his fingers. “I’ll have to pick up a new sport.”

“Ah,” Kuroo drawls, and it would suit the smirk that’s on his face right now, except there are crinkles around his eyes and he’s looking at him like—

Kuroo’s voice quietens. “I’m not so sure that any other sport would gladly deal with your shit personality.”

Kei is not so sure they’re talking about sport anymore.

“Please, have you seen the basketball kids?” he scoffs, trying to maintain the air of jocularity. He resumes unwrapping his fingers. 

It doesn’t work. Kuroo’s just looking at him, no smirk or anything. Kei swallows and stares at Kuroo’s left shoulder.

Then the moment passes, and Kuroo is laughing and stepping forward like he wants to sling an arm around Kei's shoulders. He seems to remember himself at the last second, and scratches the back of his neck instead. 

“Yeah, they were a real piece of work back in high school,” Kuroo chuckles.

The words slip out automatically. “You were a real piece of work back in high school." 

Everything he says seems to be the wrong thing—Kuroo’s the Provocation Expert, after all. Kei is not looking for—does not _fucking_ want—soft eyes. Where are the snide smirks when you need them?

“Yeah, still am.” Kuroo winks, grinning at him charmingly with a hand on his hip.

The twist in his face is basically instinctual at this point, but Kei is inclined to agree with him. Kuroo’s hair is slightly less shitty, for one, and you can see his right eye, and oh shit, maybe that’s why he hid it this entire time because—

Kei inhales through his nose. 24 is a good look on Kuroo Tetsurou. 

The tape is all off, and Kei shoves the sticky mass into his pocket. It probably takes longer than it should, and probably takes too much of his attention away from Kuroo.

He exhales out his mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself, it’s unbecoming for an old man like you.” 

“Sendai Frogs, line up!” his captain calls from the sideline.

He pulls his hand out of his pocket, finally satisfied. “I gotta—”

“Hey, wanna grab a coffee sometime?” Kuroo interjects quickly. At that, Kei looks up and stares at Kuroo’s face. It looks flustered, and there’s pink on the tips of his ears.

“I...uh,” he gapes eloquently, and did he chug two litres of coke and eat a whole mentos packet recently?

The look disappears, replaced by the sure quirk of his lip. “Don’t hurt yourself thinking. I’ll text you, okay?”

That snaps him out of it. “I’m not,” he scoffs, frowning deeply. He is acutely aware of his bottom lip jutting out like a child’s. 

It’s then that, without warning, Kuroo fucking smiles that smile. Much like three years ago, nerves dissipate. Much like three years ago, his team is piled on top of his lungs. Much like four years ago, much like five years ago— _much like six fucking years ago_. 

“It was really good seeing you, Tsukki.”

Kyoutani must have decided he’d had enough of watching their exchange, because he’s dragging him away by his wrist. “Hey, come on already. Captain’s waiting.”

“Wait—” 

When Kei looks over his shoulder, Kuroo is walking away, a silhouette barely visible down the hallway.

Kei thought he had fallen in love, once. It had been raining—a summer storm. He was never good with thunder, and coupled with Tanaka’s tectonic snoring, it had made for a troublesome night to catch some sleep. 

He had been planning on buying a carton of milk at the vending machine, but a lone figure in the hazy glow of it had stopped him in his socked tracks. He must have made some sort of sound because the figure had turned around, eyes locking onto his. Kuroo had seemed unperturbed, like he had expected Kei to be standing in front of a vending machine in Shinzen High at 2:27am. Kei had not said anything, and Kuroo had quirked his lip and swiftly turned around, punching two buttons on the machine. There was a dull thud, followed by another, and then Kuroo had thrown a pink carton his way, beckoning him to follow with a pervy wiggle of his fingers. Kei had trailed after him with a grimace, but his eyes had traced the faint cut of his silhouette. They eventually reached the south exit and Kuroo had pushed on the door with his back, extending his left arm with a shallow bow and flourish, and Kei had rolled his eyes and pointed out his lack of shoes, to which Kuroo responded by toeing his own off, pushing them towards him with a nudge of his cat-clad foot.

They had sat in silence, sipping their milk and watching the rain, and when Kei had turned to look over at Kuroo, a storm cloud had drifted overhead and moonlight had spilled across the planes of his face, softening its angles. 

Kei thought he had fallen in love, once. 

It had been a very typical Wednesday afternoon for Kei, ie. sitting in a booth alone, writing his thesis, the smell of coffee wrapping around him like a warm blanket. That was before Kuroo slid into the seat across from him, announcing his presence with the slam of his iced coffee on the table.

“Are you stalking me?” Kei doesn’t take his eyes off his screen, and his words-per-minute barely falters. He’s quite proud of himself, really.

The last time he’d seen him was a week ago, and Kuroo had not sent a text. But what was Kei expecting, anyway? He had gotten a new number last year, lost all his contacts, and hadn't seen Kuroo in three years. It’s not like he could have texted him if he wanted to.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Yes, Kei thinks. Yes he would like to know. That’s why he asked, after all. But if he had learnt anything from first year, it’s that Kuroo Tetsurou looks like thunder but sounds like rain.

Kuroo sighs, swirling the ice in his drink with his straw. Nonchalantly, he continues, “Couldn’t text you. Said your number wasn’t in service?”

At that, Kei’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. There’s a stone lodged in his throat. A big one. Probably a sedimentary rock, since there are a lot of weird ridges.

_It’s not like he could have texted him if he wanted to._

Swallowing, he resumes typing. “I got a new number.”

In his periphery, Kuroo’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ and his chest deflates. Then, his lips twist into a wan smile and his hand moves to rub the back of his neck. 

“Yeah, changed my number, too,” he replies weakly.

Kei doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all.

Clearing his throat a little, Kuroo places his elbows on the table and leans forward, resting his chin in his palms. He tries again. “Yeah, so you’re probably wondering how I found you. I was speaking to Kageyama the other day, and he told me you come here on Wednesdays. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

There is so much to unpack here. Kageyama? Remembers his schedule? Kuroo talking to Kageyama? Kei supposes it’s only natural, considering Kuroo’s current occupation as slimy creep and Japan Volleyball Sports Promotion Division Associate. But Kageyama remembering his schedule? And the fact that Kuroo could’ve just asked Kageyama for his number? And Kuroo’s fucking slightly puffed cheeks in his hands right now?

Kei adjusts his glasses. It does not adjust the choke hold on his heart.

Resigned, his hand falls and knits with his other in his lap. He finally looks up at Kuroo, who’s looking at him, his drink long forgotten.

“Well. I’m here. Congratulations.”

“Yay,” Kuroo croons, eyes half-mast. 

Then: “Yeah.” A smile. “Yeah, you are.”

Kuroo takes a long slurp of his drink. It’s almost finished, so it makes that disgusting bubbling sound. Kei tries not to take notice of it, but Kuroo’s still slurping, and it’s been like, a full minute. His face finally crumples, and then Kuroo’s eyes shine. He pulls the straw away from his mouth. Swirls the cup with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“So, whatcha working on, Tsukki?” 

Kei gives him a considering look. “My thesis.”

“Mr. Big Shot, huh?” Kuroo places his drink delicately on the table. “Care to spare any time for the mere mortals?”

He pointedly starts typing again and sneers. “Like you’re worth the time.”

“And dinosaurs are? Rude,” Kuroo pouts.

“Yep,” Kei replies, popping the ‘p’ dispassionately.

Kuroo stares for an uncomfortable minute, stabbing the ice in his drink with his straw progressively harder.

Kei sighs. “What?”

Kuroo hands fall from the cup and he grins, pleased. It dims slightly when he answers. “Heard you landed that job at Sendai City Museum. And might quit your team.”

Kei narrows his eyes. “And how do you hear these things?”

Kuroo’s eyes slip closed and he raises a palm, like he’s taking a pledge or something. “My sources would not like to be disclosed presently. Please try again in a month.”

Kei’s not impressed. “It was Kageyama, wasn’t it.”

Kuroo slowly blinks open. “Uh, uh,” he sings, wagging a spindly finger. “One month.”

“I’m never telling Kageyama anything again.”

“Hey,” he smirks, “don’t take it out on him.”

But now that they’re on the topic, Kei can’t help but voice the thoughts that had simmered on a low heat over the past week. Carefully disinterested, he asks, “Why Sports Promotion Division? Why not play?”

Although they had lost contact over the years, Kuroo did tell him that he’d managed to become a starter on his university team. And if Kei had imagined spiking the ball just above Kuroo’s sweaty hair, had imagined sneers and taunts that had ultimately meant nothing at all, had imagined meeting his eyes across the net one more time, that was for Kei to know. 

Kuroo shifts in his seat pensively before meeting his gaze from across the table. He smiles languidly. “I love playing, sure. But there’s something to lowering the net and watching others succeed. There’s something to connecting others wholeheartedly to the sport.”

Kei blinks. It’s a surprisingly....Kuroo kind of answer. He purses his lips, hiding his small smile. “Lowering the net, huh.” Cocking his head, he continues, “So who’s in your unfortunate sights?”

Kuroo looks him in the eye for a second too long before directing his gaze down at his cup. Loudly, he announces, “I was thinking about Shrimpy—”

“Hinata?”

He’s scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Except, he’s about to have his debut match here, and I don’t know if I want to—”

Weirdly anxious Kuroo is a weird Kuroo, go figure. Kei doesn’t like it. Cutting in, he frowns, “What, overwhelm him? You’re talking about Hinata, here. And you’re you—”

Now Kuroo’s frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring him, Kei nods with a condescending smirk, like he’s finally figured out the punchline to some great cosmic joke. Raising his eyebrow, he taunts, “Unless, you _can’t_ string Hinata into—”

Kuroo scowls. “Of course I could!”

“Then what’s the problem?” Kei concludes airily, shrinking back into his seat with his arms folded across his chest.

Kuroo’s jaw drops incrementally, and then he really just stares at Kei, searching. What he finds must satisfy him, because his jaw slams shut and then he’s shifting in his seat, lips pulling into that sly smirk. 

“There’s no problem,” he replies lightly, leaning forward and propping himself up on his forearms on the table. Falsely sweet, he adds, “Other than you quitting volleyball as a Division 2 player, there’s no problem at all.” His eyes rake across Kei’s face. “What, _can’t_ get into Division 1, Nobukatsu-kun?”

Kei sucks his teeth and feels his neck flush.

Suddenly, he’s standing outside the third gym in Shinzen High, goaded into extra practice. Suddenly, he’s being taunted into beating Hinata, even though they were never even competing in the first place. Suddenly, all of Kei’s buttons are being pressed in all the right places, and Kei can do nothing but respond. It’s always been like this, from first year to second year, and barely in third year. It's always been a slippery slide when it comes to Kuroo—he thinks he’s safe at the top, but then Kuroo appears with dirt on his knees and a smirk on his face, and he’s pushing Kei down the thing. Kei is screaming and Kei is clinging onto the sides, but once he’s at the bottom, hair mussed and heart beating a mile a minute, he thinks, much to his chagrin, that that was fun. And he wants to go again. 

Kei stands up, shutting his laptop. Kuroo’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open, something like an apology on his lips, but then Kei slams the table with both of his palms and leans dangerously over Kuroo. 

He narrows his eyes. “Just watch us this season,” he says slowly. 

Kuroo’s eyelids lower. He takes a sip of his drink. 

“Already am,” he smirks. 

They stay staring at each other until Kuroo puts his drink down and dusts the invisible lint off of his shoulder. “Hey, while you’re up there, let me give you something.”

Kuroo stands up and Kei jerks back, confused. Then, Kuroo’s bowing slightly and presenting him a business card with both of his hands.

Where he had pulled it from, Kei has no idea. Does he just carry around business cards with him? He’s wearing the rattiest hoodie Kei’s ever seen.

He blinks. “What?”

Kuroo, with a small smile, motions for him to take it. “JVA. Sports Promotion Division. Kuroo Tetsurou, at your service.”

“Uh…” Kei frowns, but accepts the card anyway. It’s small and reads exactly what you’d expect it to, and there’s a set of numbers printed neatly under Kuroo’s name. Dumbly, Kei sits back down, eyes still glued to the card. Kuroo follows suit, but stares holes into the table instead.

Kei looks up at him and laughs a little, trying to clear the weird atmosphere. “Is this an elaborate ploy to exploit me, you con man?”

Kuroo has different plans.

“Nah. It’s much simpler. It’s an elaborate ploy to give you my number,” he replies lightly, fiddling with his cup. Then, finally, his eyes slide to meet Kei’s. With a dimple in his cheek, he adds, “And to keep you playing volleyball.” 

There was one other time Kei saw Kuroo. 

It was just before their last Spring High prefectural finals, at Bokuto’s 20th birthday party in Tokyo. It had been a swift affair. Kuroo was late, and Kei and Hinata were just about to leave. They had stood toe-to-toe in Bokuto’s doorway, and Kuroo’s hair was dripping wet and he had looked like he wanted to say something, but Hinata had said that they were about to miss the last train, and Bokuto was fast approaching, so Kuroo had said nothing at all, pressing a small piece of card into his palm before being hurriedly dragged away. Kei had shoved it into his jean pocket, oddly put off, and his stomach had hurt. 

Somewhere between watching the rain out the carriage window and bickering with Hinata for the window seat, he’d forgotten about the paper in his pocket. When he had gotten back home, he had stripped off his jeans and threw them into the wash. What had come out of it after was a crumpled ball, ink running like tears.

Kei is pretty sure he has appendicitis when he tucks the card into his wallet.

It’s three days later, and Kei still hasn’t texted Kuroo. Instead, he’s standing in the bathroom at Akiteru’s place.

“It’s haircut day,” Akiteru intones from the doorway.

Kei pulls at his fringe and looks mournfully at his reflection. “It’s haircut day,” he concedes, but not without a deeply drawn sigh.

His brother drops him off at the nearest hairdresser, refusing to drive him to another one once Kei eyes the gaudy yellow storefront. 

“Sorry Kei, but I’m gonna be late for work.” Akiteru doesn’t sound that sorry. “Besides, this place has really good reviews on Google. And look how cute that smiley face is.” He lifts a finger off the steering wheel, pointing at the painted smiley face next to ‘¥5000 for an undercut! Crazy cheap, crazy good!’ on the window. “You should try it sometime.”

Kei ignores his brother. “¥5000 doesn’t sound cheap for an undercut.”

Akiteru grins, shooting finger guns at him. “But it’s crazy good!” He looks, and sounds, straight out of a commercial. Kei doesn’t dignify him with a response, instead opting to slam the car door shut behind him.

“Oh, come on!” Akiteru laughs after him, head sticking out the window. “Don’t come back ugly!”

Kei thinks about refusing to send him his tournament timetable as he pushes through the glass door, but then some guy with piercings is leading him toward a seat. It’s when he looks into the mirror and the guy behind him is also staring into it, with a comb and a pair of scissors in hand, that he realises who it is.

“Johzenji captain,” he says smoothly, pushing up his glasses.

“Karasuno Four-eyes,” Terushima replies with a smirk, snipping his scissors menacingly mid-air. “What will it be?”

“Not an undercut,” he stresses, and Kei watches Terushima’s face fall in the mirror.

“Aww, but they’re fun to cut,” he bemoans, but Terushima’s never down for long. Thoughtfully, he adds, “And I bet it’d look good on you, too.”

It’s weird enough that he’s talking to the former Johzenji captain, so it’s even weirder when he wants to give Kei an undercut.

“Just looking for a trim,” Kei says shortly. His hands fold in his lap.

Terushima just shrugs. “You’re the bossman.”

While Terushima messes around with his hair, Kei thinks back to second year. They had played against Johzenji at the Spring High prefectural finals, to the surprise of most. Many were betting on Date Tech, but they’d been knocked out two rounds before against Shiratorizawa. Johzenji had just managed to claim the final set against Shiratorizawa, and he had remembered the longing look on Goshiki’s face as he exited the court.

Anyway, they played against Johzenji. Kei remembered their impulsive plays and yellow uniform from first year, remembered thinking he’d never be caught dead wearing yellow, and most of all, he remembered that sharp glint in Terushima’s eye after their manager had scolded them. He remembered thinking that they’d be a force to reckon with, somewhere down the line. 

It was a grueling five set match, but not as brutal as their match against Date Tech that Interhigh. Much like the audience, Kei found himself swept up in Johzenji’s momentum, but not in the actual game sense. That match had felt like they were playing against each other at lunchtime in a make-shift court, wide-eyed and without a care in the world besides playing your best and having fun. It was a game where every successful and every unsuccessful play had rejuvenated its players, fueling their hunger to outdo their last. It was a game where Johzenji’s finally successful synchronised attack had made Kei smile, and it was a game where it felt like no one would die afterward. Though, there was one team before Johzenji that had made Kei feel the same way. 

That was the first match they had won where none of their opponents had cried. Ennoshita and Terushima shook hands, and that was that.

It nags at him. Bokuto’s prophesied moment had obviously occurred for Terushima. He’d also heard that he’d been in college prep classes, and had kept up his grades the entire time he was in high school. So what is he doing here, cutting Kei’s hair instead of playing volleyball or studying to become a physiotherapist or something?

Terushima’s hacking away at his hair, casually talking to Kei about his Sendai Frogs games, when he accidentally blurts it out.

“How come you don’t play anymore?”

Kei wants to look at anything but the mirror, but he was the one that brought this awkward conversation up, so the least he could do was look at him indirectly. 

Terushima stills, pulling the shears and comb away from Kei’s head. He tilts his head, considering, before directing his gaze toward Kei’s reflection in the mirror.

“Say, Four-eyes. Do you have fun playing volleyball?”

It’s almost word for word. Bokuto’s suddenly staring him down with his weirdly wide eyes and pointing his knobby finger at his nose. His mouth becomes dry, and he can’t believe he’s having the same conversation twice from two people that haven’t even met.

But it’s slightly different this time. There’s no trace of doubt in his voice when he replies, “Yes.”

Terushima nods with his eyes closed, like he’d expected this outcome. His stance widens, and his hands are on his hips, still clutching his hairdressing tools. When his eyes open, they’re not as wide as Bokuto’s, and there’s no finger pointed way too close to his face, but the feeling is all the same.

“It’s simple. I like being a hairdresser. It’s what I want to do.”

He can’t really explain the indignation he feels at Terushima’s answer—actually, no wait, he can. It feels like a cop out. He’s met the guy maybe three times, so he probably doesn’t deserve to hear his actual reason, but Kei says what’s on his mind anyway. 

“But you were good at volleyball. And had good grades.”

Terushima hums, like he had also expected Kei to say this. Has he become predictable? The thought adds to his peevishness. As long as it doesn’t translate into volleyball, he supposes.

“Yeah, those were things I knew I was good at. I still like volleyball and all, but I wouldn't play at a professional level. Kind of cramps my style,” Terushima explains breezily, leaning with one arm on the backrest of Kei’s chair while crossing his ankles. He’s the picture of confidence, but then something shifts, and then he’s staring at nothing at all. Kei thinks he’s done talking but suddenly Terushima recites, “If you want to play, first you need a playground.”

His eyes slide back to meet Kei’s, now clear and present, and his lips twist into a wry grin. “Guess you could say I needed a different playground. Now, let’s get back to your haircut, shall we?”

Terushima puts his tools down and gives him a thumbs up before placing both of his hands on the back of his chair. Kei inspects his reflection. His fringe is a couple centimetres shorter, and his sides are trimmed. All in all, it’s good. It’s his usual, after all.

“I think you know what I mean, Four-eyes,” Terushima says. Kei startles and scrambles for the remnants of their conversation five minutes ago. Even when finding it, he’s confused. 

“Not the professional volleyball bit,” he continues, waving Kei off. “I remember you seemed pretty bored playing back in your first year. Now look at you. You’ve changed quite a bit—think you’ve finally accepted your playground.”

Kei doesn’t really get the playground metaphors, but thanks him anyway. 

“If you ever want that undercut, you know where to find me!” Terushima calls out after him, just before the glass door shuts.

Two days later, and Kei’s sitting in the Sendai City Gymnasium. Update: he still has not texted Kuroo.

“I can’t believe it’s already been three years since we last played here. Time sure flies, huh?” Yamaguchi says as he settles into his seat next to Kei, biting enthusiastically into his onigiri.

“Yeah, it does,” he replies, watching Kageyama bounce the ball violently with the heel of his palm. Three years is a long fucking time. Three years is the equivalent of their whole high school career.

The serve goes up, and Hinata bumps it effortlessly to Miya Atsumu.

A lot of things can change in three years.

Hinata jumps, higher than three years ago, higher than four, higher than five and definitely higher than six. The ball has already landed on the Adlers’ side by the time he blinks—an unfortunate error on his part. As much as their relationship has improved over the years, there is still something satisfying about seeing Kageyama snuffed.

But a lot can remain the same. 

Like Hinata’s wide grin, and the fact that he's still shorter than Kei (but did anyone expect him to outgrow him, anyway?). 

And there's Miya Atsumu's pre-serve ritual.

Atsumu’s fist clenches, and the arena becomes deathly silent. Kei’s lip curls and he bites down the urge to yell out something, anything. 

He guesses he’s still an asshole, after all these years.

Anyway, this is the first time he’s seeing Atsumu’s serve in person since second year. He had thought his ritual stupid, and had made sure to tell Suna what he thought when they had watched the Jackals play on the small television in Onigri Miya, weirdly enough.

He’d been in Tokyo for a week last year, and had craved onigiri for lunch. The hot new up-and-coming onigiri place in Shibuya was all over social media, and Kei caved in and decided to try it out. At that moment, it did not connect that the Miya in Ongiri Miya was connected to the Miya in the Miya twins. So he had walked in, swiftly tried to walk out when he saw Miya Osamu behind the counter and Suna in front of it, but there were people walking in that blocked Kei’s almost timely exit, and then Miya Osamu saw him.

“Karasuno Four-eyes? Long way from Miyagi, eh?”

Then he had found himself sitting next to Suna, picking at his freshly made onigiri while Osamu had disappeared into the kitchen. The small talk had been almost unbearable, consisting of: ‘Play volleyball still?’, ‘Yeah, you?’, ‘Yeah, for the Paper Mills’, ‘Oh, I play for the Sendai Frogs’, ‘Nice’, ‘Yeah’.

Kei was about to stand up and leave, but then the commercial break on the television had finished and Miya Atsumu appeared on screen for his pre-game interview, and the rest was history.

“If you can’t spike my tosses, you’re just a scrub,” Suna had mocked, imitating Atsumu’s Kansai-ben. His face had remained completely apathetic though, and Kei had hid his snicker behind his onigiri.

“Does he regularly shit on his teammates like that?”

“You should’ve seen him at practice.”

Suddenly, the audience on screen had fallen silent, and so had Suna. He had stared at the screen, and Kei wasn’t sure he had blinked in the past minute. Probably a habit for him at this point. Before Atsumu’s palm could connect with the ball, Kei decided that this was the perfect time to voice his five-year-old thought, like the asshole he is. 

“His serve ritual is dumb.”

Suna had startled, and turned to face Kei. He bit into his onigiri absentmindedly. “I thought so too,” he began. Then, his eyes squinted a fraction. He took another bite, mulling over the rice before swallowing. “But then he told me why he does it. It’s probably the only smart thing that fucker will ever say in his life.”

Kei raised his eyebrow.

Suna had placed his half-eaten onigiri on his plate and pushed it away, wiping his fingers on a napkin. He had looked like he was about to impart some age-old wisdom on Kei—which he pretty much did.

“In that silent moment, that asshole is like any other player. He’s not Atsumu the Olympian, not Atsumu the Black Jackal, but Atsumu the volleyball player. At _that_ present moment—” 

Suna had gestured to the screen. It was Atsumu’s second serve, and they had watched it play out in silence. It was a service ace.

“—that’s all he needs to be.”

Kei remembers thinking that Suna's explanation had sounded like a bunch of metaphorical bullshit, but watching that serve in person, watching every monster he had played with and/or against in high school, _watching a game where nobody will die afterward_ , it clicks. Everything fucking clicks. 

Maybe Kageyama is the King of the Court and maybe Hinata is a shrimp and maybe Bokuto wasn’t a top three ace and maybe Ushiwaka dislocated his finger once, and maybe they’ll all be Olympians in 2020, but in this present moment, they’re nothing but volleyball players. Kei has seen their past, seen them defeated, seen them grow into what they are today, even if he saw half of it through a grainy Skype call. And tomorrow they’ll be playing again, and again, and again, whether it be in Japan or Italy or Brazil or in Shinzen fucking High. And that’s all there is to it. 

_That’s all there is to it._

As enthralling as Atsumu’s freak set and Hinata’s minus tempo jump is, Kei’s eyes subconsciously seek out Kuroo, who is standing offside, hand on hip. Distantly, he thinks that appendices are useless organs and that his playground could use a slide. 

When Kuroo’s gaze turns to meet his, Kei smiles. 

He has never once fallen out of love.

It’s simple, really. 

[03-XXXX-XXXX]

<< As my senpai, it’s only fair that you walk me home tonight, Kuroo-san. There are dangerous people about.  
>> oho?  
>> u drive a hard bargain tsukki  
>> come get cow tongue w us and i’ll consider it

Kei is impossibly warm and unbearably light when Kuroo leads him out the restaurant door. They’re fresh off laughing at Bokuto’s faceplant into the table, so they’re stumbling a bit, but it’s okay. 

“I’m pretty sure we left all the dangerous people back there,” Kuroo quips, but he moves to walk just that bit closer to Kei, and their shoulders brush. 

“You’re right, Kuroo-san,” Kei nods solemnly. “Although, Kageyama is notorious for running around these parts at the dead of night. Sometimes, he even _smiles_ while doing it.” He fakes a shiver.

Kuroo cackles, clutching his stomach so hard it looks like he’s about to puke. Kei gives him a consoling pat on his back. After five minutes, his guffaw peters out into a sigh and an exaggerated tear wipe, and when Kuroo’s emerging from his hunched position, he thoughtfully adds, “You know, he kind of looks like a lizard when he smiles.”

Kei thinks about it for a good five seconds. The image that comes to mind startles a laugh out of him. “Oh my god. You’re not wrong. He’s like one of those geckos.”

“Hey… that reminds me.” Kuroo grabs desperately at his bicep with both of his hands, eyes comically wide. “Tsukki, did you know that...”

Kuroo lets one hand go to gesticulate, but before Kei can miss its warmth, the hand that’s still gripping him slides down and then they’re linking arms, and Kuroo’s pushing closer into his side. Kei knows nothing at all except warmth and the condensation forming from their breath and the stars and the want for Kuroo to slide his hand down further and link with his. 

Kei turns his gaze out toward the distance where he lets his lip curve softly. Kuroo’s voice tunes back into focus, something about Mark Zuckerberg actually being a lizard. Kei hums sagely, like he’s been attentive the entire time. _Have you seen his eyes? He is 100% a lizard or something or other and_...

As much as he’s spaced out, he does notice that Kuroo’s voice has softened out to nothing but drizzle on a window. 

“What, run out of evidence for Mark the Lizard?”

There’s a beat. Kuroo stops walking. 

“Are you free tomorrow?”

This is also what Kei knows: 

There are Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium smiles and dynamic playgrounds. There are slides and silent serves and turnips and appendices that demand to be removed and there is honest-to-god flying. 

There are endings and beginnings. 

Two weeks ago, Kei saw Kuroo for the first time in three years. Two weeks ago, Kuroo had asked him a similar question. However, this time there’s no rush in his voice, no uncertainty in his eyes, though the tips of his ears are coloured all the same.

This time, Kei knows what to say. 

“I’ve got a haircut appointment. I’ll be free after that.”

His hand slides down to meet Kuroo’s halfway.

“But today, walk me home, Kuroo-san.”

The next time he’ll see Kuroo, it will be tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> johzenji’s and inarizaki’s banners have always struck me in a different way to tobe fly. firstly, i had agreed with terushima about how lame their banner was. johzenji’s play style has always been my favourite because it reflects my own attitude towards sport and life in general; play to have fun. i guess i related to terushima a lot in that way since i’d only really do things if they were fun, once upon a time. inarizaki’s just never really made sense to me. wouldn’t you want memories? what kind of school motto is who needs memories? reading 402 and seeing the banners in 399-402 represented in such a glorious way (probably my favourite panels in the entire series) had made me realise, besides the fact that haikyuu will probably be one of the greatest mangas i’ve read (but i guess it kind of relates to that anyway), is that they're are all connected (two points to nekoma): simplicity and fortitude, who needs memories, tobe fucking fly and rule the fucking court.
> 
> ‘Yesterday, you were the defeated. What have you become today?’
> 
> it’s simple, really.


End file.
